IRLF 


AT   SUNDOWN 


AT  SUNDOWN 

BY  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

WITH    DESIGNS   BY?i 

E  H  GARRETT 


BOSTON   AND  NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

(€be  fitoersibe  $re$ 

MDCCCXCII 


Copyright,  1890, 
BT  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Copyright,  1892, 
BT  GEORGE  F.  BAGLEY  AND  GEORGE  W.  CATE, 

EXECUTORS  AND  TRUSTEES, 
AND  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  River  tide  Prett,  Cambridge,  Ma**.,  U.  8.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Hooghton  &  Company. 


To  E.  C.  S. 

Poet  and  friend  of  poets,  if  thy  glass 
Detects  no  flower  in  winter's  tuft  of  grass, 
Let  this  slight  token  of  the  debt  I  owe 

Outlive  for  thee  December's  frozen  day, 
And,  like  the  arbutus  budding  under  snow, 

Take  bloom  and  fragrance  from  some  morn  of  May 
When  he  who  gives  it  shall  have  gone  the  way 
Where  faith  shall  see  and  reverent  trust  shall  know. 


903057 


A  small  edition  of  this  little  volume  was 
privately  printed  two  years  ago,  and 
speedily  exhausted  among  the  author's 
friends.  The  demand  for  it  since  has 
been  so  persistent  that  he  has  consented 
to  its  publication  in  the  present  form. 
A  few  poems  written  since  its  previous 
issue  are  inserted  in  this  new  edition. 

J.  G.  W. 
AMESBURY,  July,  1892. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

THE  CHRISTMAS  OF  1888 11 

THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON 14 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  WELL 20 

AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 27 

R.  S.  S.,  AT  DEER  ISLAND  ON  THE  MERRIMAC     .  33 

BURNING  DRIFT- WOOD 35 

O.  W.  HOLMES  ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY    .     .  41 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 42 

HAVERHILL 43 

To  G.  G 51 

PRESTON  POWERS,  INSCRIPTION  FOR  BASS-RELIEF  53 

LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY,  INSCRIPTION  ON  TABLET     .  54 

MILTON,  ON  MEMORIAL  WINDOW 55 

THE  BIRTHDAY  WREATH 56 

THE  WIND  OF  MARCH 58 

To  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 61 

BETWEEN  THE  GATES 65 

THE  LAST  EVE  OF  SUMMER 68 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB   .    .    .    Frontispiece. 

The  smoke  of  home-hearths  curled 
Up  the  still  air 12 

The  Powow  is  at  your  back 22 

One  whose  tender  eyes 
Reflect  the  change  of  April's  skies 28 

Memory  to  that  Island  clings 34 

Birds  have  flown,  and  trees  are  bare 38 

The  blessing  of  its  mountain  springs 46 

When  the  daisies  bloom 52 

Watch  the  warm,  sweet  day 
Lapse  tenderly  away 68 


AT  SUNDOWN 


THE  CHRISTMAS  OF  1888 

Low  in  the  east,  agaiAst  tJij^K^te,  cold  dawn, 
The   black-lined    silhoue.ttQ    qf..tfxe  ,wppds   was 

drawn,  '•.•;•%:.."       -.•*'.- 

And  on  a  wintry  waste 
Of    frosted    streams    and    hillsides    bare    and 

brown, 
Through  thin  cloud-films  a  pallid  ghost  looked 

down, 
The  waning  moon  half -faced  I 

In  that  pale  sky  and  sere,  snow-waiting  earth, 
What  sign  was  there  of  the  immortal  birth? 

What  herald  of  the  One  ? 
Lo !  swift   as   thought   the  heavenly   radiance 

came, 

11 


THE  CHRISTMAS  OF  1888  12 

A  rose-red  splendor  swept  the  sky  like  flame, 
Up  rolled  the  round,  bright  sun ! 

And   all   was   changed.     From   a  transfigured 

world 

The   moon's   ghost   fled,   the   smoke  of  home- 
hearths  curled 
Up  the  still  air  unblown. 
In  Orient  warmth  and  brightness,  did  that  morn 
O'er  Nain  and  Nazareth,  when  the  Christ  was 

born, 
Break  fairer  than  our  own? 

The  morning's  promise  noon  and  eve  fulfilled 
In  warm,  soft  sky  and  landscape  hazy-hilled 

And  sunset  fair  as  they ; 
A  sweet  reminder  of  His  holiest  time, 
A  summer-miracle   in  our  winter  clime, 

God  gave  a  perfect  day. 

The  near  was  blended  with  the  old  and  far, 
And  Bethlehem's  hillside  and  the  Magi's  star 


THE  CHEISTMAS  OF  1888  13 

Seemed  here,  as  there  and  then,  — 
Our  homestead  pine-tree  was  the  Syrian  palm, 
Our  heart's  desire  the  angels'  midnight  psalm, 

Peace,  and  good-will  to  men ! 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON 


READ  IN  NEW  YORK,  APRIL  30,  1889,  AT  THE  CENTEN 
NIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  INAUGURATION  OF  GEORGE 
WASHINGTON  AS  THE  FIRST  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES. 


THE  sword  was  sheathed :  in  April's  sun 
Lay  green  the  fields  by  Freedom  won; 
And  severed  sections,  weary  of  debates, 
Joined  hands  at  last  and  were  United  States. 

O  City  sitting  by  the  Sea! 

How  proud  the  day  that  dawned  on  thee, 
When  the  new  era,  long  desired,  began, 
And,    in    its    need,    the   hour   had    found   the 
man ! 

One  thought  the  cannon  salvos  spoke, 

The  resonant  bell-tower's  vibrant  stroke, 
14 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON  15 

The  voiceful  streets,  the  plaudit-echoing  halls, 
And  prayer  and  hymn  borne  heavenward  from 
St.  Paul's! 

How  felt  the  land  in  every  part 
The  strong  throb  of  a  nation's  heart, 
As  its  great  leader  gave,  with  reverent  awe, 
His  pledge  to  Union,  Liberty,  and  Law! 

That  pledge  the  heavens  above  him  heard, 
That  vow  the  sleep  of  centuries  stirred ; 
In  world-wide  wonder  listening  peoples  bent 
Their  gaze  on  Freedom's  great  experiment. 

Could  it  succeed?     Of  honor  sold 
And  hopes  deceived  all  history  told. 

Above  the  wrecks  that   strewed  the   mournful 
past, 

Was  the  long  dream  of  ages  true  at  last? 

Thank  God !  the  people's  choice  was  just, 
The  one  man  equal  to  his  trust, 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON  16 

Wise  beyond  lore,  and  without  weakness  good, 
Calm  in  the  strength  of  flawless  rectitude ! 

His  rule  of  justice,  order,  peace, 
Made  possible  the  world's    release ; 
Taught   prince    and    serf   that   power  is  but  a 

trust, 

And   rule,    alone,  which    serves   the    ruled,    is 
just; 

That  Freedom  generous  is,  but  strong 
In  hate  of  fraud  and  selfish  wrong, 
Pretence  that  turns  her  holy  truths  to  lies, 
And  lawless  license  masking  in  her  guise. 

Land  of  his  love !  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  thy  great  sisterhood  rejoice ; 
A  century's  suns  o'er  thee  have  risen  and  set, 
And,  God  be  praised,  we  are  one  nation  yet. 

And  still  we  trust  the  years  to  be 
Shall  prove  his  hope  was  destiny, 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON  17 

Leaving  our  flag,  with  all  its  added  stars, 
Unrent  by  faction  and  unstained  by  wars. 

Lo!  where  with  patient  toil  he  nursed 
And  trained  the  new-set  plant  at  first, 
The  widening  branches  of  a  stately  tree 
Stretch  from  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  sea. 

And  in  its  broad  and  sheltering  shade, 
Sitting  with  none  to  make  afraid, 
Were    we    now   silent,    through    each    mighty 

limb, 

The  winds  of  heaven  would  sing  the  praise  of 
him. 

Our  first  and  best !  —  his  ashes  lie 
Beneath  his  own  Virginian  sky. 
Forgive,  forget,  O  true  and  just  and  brave, 
The  storm  that  swept  above  thy  sacred  grave ! 

For,  ever  in  the  awful  strife 

And  dark  hours  of  the  nation's  life, 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON  18 

Through  the  fierce  tumult  pierced  his  warning 

word, 
Their  father's  voice  his  erring  children  heard ! 

The    change    for    which    he    prayed    and 

sought 

In  that  sharp  agony  was  wrought ; 
No  partial  interest  draws  its  alien  line 
'Twixt  North   and  South,  the  cypress   and  the 
pine ! 

One  people  now,  all  doubt  beyond, 
His  name  shall  be  our  Union-bond ; 

We  lift  our  hands  to  Heaven,  and  here   and 
now, 

Take  on  our  lips  the  old  Centennial  vow. 

For  rule  and  trust  must  needs  be  ours ; 

Chooser  and  chosen  both  are  powers 
Equal  in  service  as  in  rights ;  the  claim 
Of  Duty  rests  on  each  and  all  the  same. 


THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON  19 

Then  let  the  sovereign  millions,  where 
Our  banner  floats  in  sun  and  air, 
From  the  warm  palm-lands  to  Alaska's  cold, 
Repeat  with  us  the  pledge  a  century  old  I 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  WELL 

[The  story  of  the  shipwreck  of  Captain  Valentine  Bagley, 
on  the  coast  of  Arabia,  and  his  sufferings  in  the  desert,  has 
been  familiar  from  my  childhood.  It  has  been  partially  told 
in  the  singularly  beautiful  lines  of  my  friend,  Harriet  Prescott 
Spofford,  on  the  occasion  of  a  public  celebration,  at  the  New- 
buryport  Library.  To  the  charm  and  felicity  of  her  verse,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  nothing  can  be  added,  but  in  the  following  ballad 
I  have  endeavored  to  give  a  fuller  detail  of  the  touching  in 
cident  upon  which  it  is  founded.] 

FROM  pain  and  peril,  by  land  and  main, 
The  shipwrecked  sailor  came  back  again ; 

And    like   one    from   the    dead,  the   threshold 

cross'd 
Of   his    wondering    home,    that    had   mourned 

him  lost, 

Where  he  sat  once  more  with  his  kith  and  kin, 
And  welcomed  his  neighbors  thronging  in. 
20 


THE  CAPTAIN'S   WELL  21 

But    when   morning    came    he   called   for    his 

spade. 
"I  must  pay  my  debt  to  the  Lord,"  he  said. 

"  Why  dig  you  here  ?  "  asked  the  passer-by ; 
"  Is  there  gold  or  silver  the  road  so  nigh  ?  " 

"  No,  friend,"  he    answered :  "  but  under  this 

sod 
Is  the  blessed  water,  the  wine  of  God." 

"  Water !  the  Powow  is  at  your  back, 
And  right  before  you  the  Merrimac, 

"  And  look  you  up,  or  look  you  down, 
There  's  a  well-sweep  at  every  door  in  town." 

"  True,"  he  said,  "  we  have  wells  of  our  own ; 
But  this  I  dig  for  the  Lord  alone." 

Said  the  other:    "This  soil  is  dry,  you  know. 
I  doubt  if  a  spring  can  be  found  below ; 


THE  CAPTAIN'S   WELL  22 

"  You  had  better  consult,  before  you  dig, 
Some  water-witch,  with  a  hazel  twig." 

"No,  wet  or  dry,  I  will  dig  it  here, 
Shallow  or  deep,  if  it  takes  a  year. 

"In  the  Arab  desert,  where  shade  is  none, 
The  waterless  land  of  sand  and  sun, 

"  Under  the  pitiless,  brazen  sky 

My  burning  throat  as  the  sand  was  dry ; 

"  My  crazed  brain  listened  in  fever  dreams 
For  plash  of    buckets  and  ripple  of  streams  ; 

"And  opening   my  eyes  to  the  blinding  glare, 
And  my  lips  to  the  breath  of  the  blistering  air, 

"  Tortured  alike  by  the  heavens  and  earth, 
I  cursed,  like  Job,  the  day  of  my  birth. 

"  Then  something  tender,  and  sad,  and  mild 
As  a  mother's  voice  to  her  wandering  child, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S   WELL  23 

"  Rebuked    my  frenzy ;  and  bowing   my  head, 
I  prayed  as  I  never  before  had  prayed: 

"  Pity  me,  God  !  for  I  die  of  thirst ; 
Take  me  out  of  this  land  accurst ; 

"  And  if  ever  I  reach  my  home  again, 
Where  earth  has  springs,  and  the  sky  has  rain, 

"I  will  dig  a  well  for  the  passers-by, 
And  none  shall  suffer  from  thirst  as  L 

"  I  saw,  as  I  prayed,  my  home  once  more, 
The  house,  the  barn,  the  elms  by  the  door, 

"The  grass-lined  road,  that  riverward  wound, 
The  tall  slate  stones  of  the  burying-ground, 

"  The  belfry  and  steeple  on  meeting-house  hill, 
The  brook  with  its  dam,  and  gray  grist  mill, 

"And  I  knew  in  that  vision  beyond  the  sea, 
The  very  place  where  my  well  must  be. 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  WELL  24 

"  God  heard  my  prayer  in  that  evil  day ; 
He  led  my  feet  in  their  homeward  way, 

"  From  false  mirage  and  dried-up  well, 
And  the  hot  sand  storms  of  a  land  of  hell, 

"  Till  I  saw  at  last  through  the  coast-hill's  gap, 
A  city  held  in  its  stony  lap, 

"The    mosques    and   the    domes    of    scorched 

Muscat, 
And  my  heart  leaped  up  with  joy  thereat; 

"For  there  was  a  ship  at  anchor  lying, 
A  Christian  flag  at    its  mast-head  flying, 

"And  sweetest  of  sounds  to  my  homesick  ear 
Was  my  native  tongue  in  the  sailor's  cheer. 

"  Now  the  Lord  be  thanked,  I  am  back  again, 
Where  earth  has   springs,  and  the  skies    have 
rain, 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  WELL  25 

"And  the  well  I  promised  by  Oman's  Sea, 
I  am  digging  for  him  in  Amesbury." 

His  kindred  wept,  and  his  neighbors  said : 
"  The  poor  old  captain  is  out  of  his  head." 

But    from    morn   to    noon,  and    from   noon  to 

night, 
He  toiled  at  his  task   with  main  and  might ; 

And  when  at  last,  from  the  loosened  earth, 
Under  his  spade  the  stream  gushed  forth, 

And   fast    as   he    climbed    to    his    deep   well's 

brim, 
The  water  he  dug  for  followed  him, 

He  shouted  for  joy:  "I  have  kept  my  word, 
And  here  is  the  well  I  promised  the  Lord !  " 

The  long  years  came  and  the  long  years  went, 
And  he  sat  by  his  roadside  well  content ; 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  WELL  .     26 

He  watched  the  travellers,  heat-oppressed, 
Pause  by  the  way  to  drink  and  rest, 

And  the  sweltering  horses  dip,  as  they  drank, 
Their  nostrils  deep  in  the  cool,  sweet  tank 

And  grateful  at  heart,  his  memory  went 
Back  to  that  waterless  Orient, 

And  the  blessed  answer  of  prayer,  which  came 
To  the  earth  of  iron  and  sky  of  flame. 

And  when  a  wayfarer  weary  and  hot, 
Kept  to  the  mid  road,  pausing  not 

For  the  well's  refreshing,  he  shook  his  head ; 
"He  don't  know  the  value  of  water,' ;  he  said; 

"  Had  he  prayed  for  a  drop,  as  I  have  done, 
In  the  desert  circle  of  sand  and  sun, 

"  He  would  drink  and  rest,  and  go  home  to  tell 
That  God's  best  gift  is  the  wayside  well !  " 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION1 

ON  these  green  banks,  where  falls  too  soon 

The  shade  of  Autumn's  afternoon, 

The  south  wind  blowing  soft  and  sweet, 

The  water  gliding  at  my  feet, 

The  distant  northern  range  uplit 

By  the  slant  sunshine  over  it, 

With  changes  of  the  mountain  mist 

From  tender  blush  to  amethyst, 

The  valley's  stretch  of  shade  and  gleam 

Fair  as  in  Mirza's  Bagdad  dream, 

With  glad  young  faces  smiling  near 

And  merry  voices  in  my  ear, 

I  sit,  methinks,  as  Hafiz  might 

1  The   substance   of   these   lines,  hastily   pencilled  several 
years  ago,  I  find  among  such  of  my  imprinted  scraps  as  have 
escaped   the  waste-basket  and  the  fire.     In  transcribing  it  I 
have  made  some  changes,  additions,  and  omissions. 
27 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION  28 

In  Iran's  Garden  of  Delight. 
For  Persian  roses  blushing  red, 
Aster  and  gentian  bloom  instead  ; 
For  Shiraz  wine,  this  mountain  air ; 
For  feast,  the  blueberries  which  I  share 
With  one  who  proffers  with  stained  hands 
Her  gleanings  from  yon  pasture  lands, 
Wild  fruit  that  art  and  culture  spoil, 
The  harvest  of  an  untilled  soil; 
And  with  her  one  whose  tender  eyes 
Reflect  the  change  of  April  skies, 
Midway  'twixt  child  and  maiden  yet, 
Fresh  as  Spring's  earliest  violet ; 
And  one  whose  look  and  voice  and  ways 
Make  where  she  goes  idyllic  days; 
And  one  whose  sweet,  still  countenance 
Seems  dreamful  of  a  child's  romance  ; 
And  others,  welcome  as  are  these, 
Like  and  unlike,  varieties 
Of  pearls  on  nature's  chaplet  strung,  — 
And  all  are  fair,  for  all  are  young. 
Gathered  from  seaside  cities  old, 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION  29 

From  midland  prairie,  lake,  and  wold, 

From  the  great  wheat-fields,  which  might  feed 

The  hunger  of  a  world  at  need, 

In  healthful  change  of  rest  and  play 

Their  school-vacations  glide  away. 

No  critics  these :  they  only  see 
An  old  and  kindly  friend  in  me, 
In  whose  amused,  indulgent  look 
Their  innocent  mirth  has  no  rebuke. 
They  scarce  can  know  my  rugged  rhymes, 
The  harsher  songs  of  evil  times, 
Nor  graver  themes  in  minor  keys 
Of  life's  and  death's  solemnities ; 
But  haply,  as  they  bear  in  mind 
Some  verse  of  lighter,  happier  kind, — 
Hints  of  the  boyhood  of  the  man, 
Youth  viewed  from  life's  meridian, 
Half  seriously  and  half  in  play 
My  pleasant  interviewers  pay 
Their  visit  with  no  fell  intent 
Of  taking  notes  and  publishment. 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION  30 

As  yonder  solitary  pine 
Is  ringed  below  with  flower  and  vine, 
More  favored  than  that  lonely  tree, 
The  bloom  of  girlhood  circles  me. 
In  such  an  atmosphere  of  youth 
I  half  forget  my  age's  truth ; 
The  shadow  of  my  life's  long  date 
Runs  backward  on  the  dial-plate, 
Until  it  seems  a  step  might  span 
The  gulf  between  the  boy  and  man. 

My  young  friends  smile,  as  if  some  jay 

On  bleak  December's  leafless  spray 

Essayed  to  sing  the  songs  of  May. 

Well,  let  them  smile,  and  live  to  know, 

When  their  brown  locks  are  flecked  with  snow, 

*Tis  tedious  to  be  always  sage 

And  pose  the  dignity  of  age, 

While  so  much  of  our  early  lives 

On  memory's  playground  still  survives, 

And  owns,  as  at  the  present  hour, 

The  spell  of  youth's  magnetic  power. 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION  31 

But  though  I  feel,  with  Solomon, 

'Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  sun, 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  repeat 

A  life  which  still  is  good  and  sweet ; 

I  keep  in  age,  as  in  my  prime, 

A  not  uncheerful  step  with  time, 

And,  grateful  for  all  blessings  sent, 

I  go  the  common  way,  content 

To  make  no  new  experiment. 

On  easy  terms  with  law  and  fate, 

For  what  must  be  I  calmly  wait, 

And  trust  the  path  I  cannot  see, — 

That  God  is  good  sufficeth  me. 

And  when  at  last  on  life's  strange  play 

The  curtain  falls,  I  only  pray 

That  hope  may  lose  itself  in  truth, 

And  age  in  Heaven's  immortal  youth, 

And  all  our  loves  and  longing  prove 

The  foretaste  of  diviner  love! 

The  day  is  done.     Its  afterglow 
Along  the  west  is  burning  low. 


AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION  32 

My  visitors,  like  birds,  have  flown ; 

I  hear  their  voices,  fainter  grown, 

And  dimly  through  the  dusk  I  see 

Their  'kerchiefs  wave  good-night  to  me, — 

Light  hearts  of  girlhood,  knowing  nought 

Of  all  the  cheer  their  coming  brought ; 

And,  in  their  going,  unaware 

Of  silent-following  feet  of  prayer: 

Heaven  make  their  budding  promise  good 

With  flowers  of  gracious  womanhood ! 


R.  S.  S.,  AT  DEER   ISLAND  ON  THE  MER- 
RIMAC 

MAKE,  for  he  loved  thee  well,  our  Merrimac, 
From    wave     and    shore    a    low    and    long 

lament 
For  him,  whose  last  look  sought  thee,  as  he 

went 
The  unknown  way  from  which  no  step  comes 

back. 

And  ye,  O  ancient  pine-trees,  at  whose  feet 
He    watched   in  life  the    sunset's    reddening 

glow, 
Let  the  soft  south  wind  through  your  needles 

blow 

A  fitting  requiem  tenderly  and  sweet! 
No  fonder  lover  of  all  lovely  things 

Shall  walk  where  once  he  walked,  no  smile 
more  glad 


E.  S.  S.,  AT  DEER  ISLAND  34 

Greet    friends    than   his  who  friends   in   all 

men  had, 

Whose  pleasant  memory  to  that  Island  clings, 
Where  a  dear  mourner  in  the  home  he  left 
Of  love's  sweet  solace  cannot  be  bereft. 


BURNING  DRIFT-WOOD 

BEFORE  my  drift-wood  fire  I  sit, 
And  see,  with  every  waif  I  burn, 

Old  dreams  and  fancies  coloring  it, 
And  folly's  unlaid  ghosts  return. 

O  ships  of  mine,  whose  swift  keels  cleft 
The  enchanted  sea  on  which  they  sailed. 

Are  these  poor  fragments  only  left 

Of  vain  desires  and  hopes  that  failed? 

Did  I  not  watch  from  them  the  light 
Of   sunset  on  my  towers  in  Spain, 

And  see,  far  off,  uploom  in  sight 

The  Fortunate  Isles  I  might  not  gain? 

Did  sudden  lift  of  fog  reveal 

Arcadia's  vales  of  song  and  spring, 

35 


BUENING  DRIFT-WOOD  36 

And  did  I  pass,  with  grazing  keel, 
The  rocks  whereon  the  sirens  sing? 

Have  I  not  drifted  hard  upon 

The  unmapped  regions  lost  to  man, 

The  cloud-pitched  tents  of  Prester  John, 
The  palace  domes  of  Kubla  Khan? 

Did  land  winds  blow  from  jasmine  flowers, 
Where  Youth  the  ageless  Fountain  fills? 

Did  Love  make  sign  from  rose  blown  bowers, 
And  gold  from  Eldorado's  hills? 

Alas!  the  gallant  ships,  that   sailed 
On  blind  Adventure's  errand  sent, 

Howe'er  they  laid  their  courses,  failed 
To  reach  the  haven  of  Content. 

And  of  my  ventures,  those  alone 

Which  Love  had  freighted,  safely  sped, 

Seeking  a  good  beyond  my  own, 
By  clear-eyed  Duty  piloted. 


BUEN1NG  DEIFT-WOOD  37 

0  mariners,  hoping  still  to  meet 
The  luck  Arabian  voyagers  met, 

And  find  in  Bagdad's  moonlit  street 
Haroun  al  Raschid  walking  yet, 

Take  with  you,  on  your  Sea  of  Dreams, 
The  fair,  fond  fancies  dear  to  youth. 

1  turn  from  all  that  only  seems, 

And  seek  the  sober  grounds  of  truth. 

What  matter  that  it  is  not  May, 

That  birds  have  flown,  and  trees  are  bare, 
That  darker  grows  the  shortening  day, 

And  colder  blows  the  wintry  air ! 

The  wrecks  of  passion  and  desire, 

The  castles  I  no  more  rebuild, 
May  fitly  feed  my  drift-wood  fire, 

And  warm  the  hands  that  age  has  chilled. 

Whatever  perished  with  my  ships, 
I  only  know  the  best  remains ; 


•          -      .*Vf. 

• ' -  .  .•  .  ,.r     .."-.  ~, . 


BURNING  DEIFT-WOOD  38 

A  song  of  praise  is  on  my  lips 

For  losses  which  are  now  my  gains. 

Heap  high  my  hearth!    No  worth  is  lost; 

No  wisdom  with  the  folly  dies. 
Burn  on,  poor  shreds,  your  holocaust 

Shall  be  my  evening  sacrifice! 

Far  more  than  all  I  dared  to  dream, 
Unsought  before  my  door  I  see ; 

On  wings  of  fire  and  steeds  of  steam 
The  world's  great  wonders  come  to  me, 

And  holier  signs,  unmarked  before, 

Of  Love  to  seek  and  Power  to  save, — 

The  righting  of  the  wronged  and  poor, 
The  man  evolving  from  the  slave ; 

And  life,  no  longer  chance  or  fate, 
Safe  in  the  gracious  Fatherhood. 

I  fold  o'er-wearied  hands  and  wait, 
In  full  assurance  of  the  good« 


EVENING  DRIFT-WOOD  39 

And  well  the  waiting  time  must  be, 
Though  brief  or  long  its  granted  days, 

If  Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity 

Sit  by  my  evening  hearth-fire's  blaze. 

And   with    them,    friends   whom    Heaven    has 
spared, 

Whose   love  my  heart  has  comforted, 
And,  sharing  all  my  joys,  has  shared 

My  tender  memories  of  the  dead,  — 

Dear  souls  who  left  us  lonely  here, 

Bound  on  their  last,  long  voyage,  to  whom 

We,  day  by  day,  are  drawing  near, 
Where  every  bark  has  sailing  room. 

I  know  the  solemn  monotone 

Of  waters  calling  unto  me ; 
I  know  from  whence  the  airs  have  blown 

That  whisper   of  the  Eternal  Sea. 


BURNING  DRIFT-WOOD  40 

As  low  my  fires  of  drift-wood  burn, 
I  hear  that  sea's  deep  sounds  increase, 

And,  fair  in  sunset  light,  discern 
Its  mirage-lifted  Isles  of  Peace. 


0.  W.  HOLMES  ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTH 
DAY 

CLIMBING    a    path    which    leads    back     never 

more 
We  heard  behind  his  footsteps  and  his  cheer; 

Now,  face  to  face,  we  greet  him  standing  here 

Upon  the  lonely  summit  of  Fourscore ! 

Welcome  to  us,  o'er  whom  the  lengthened  day 
Is  closing  and  the  shadows  colder  grow, 
His  genial  presence,  like  an  afterglow, 

Following  the  one  just  vanishing  away. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  table  shall  be  set 
For  the  last  breakfast  of  the  Autocrat, 
And  love  repeat  with  smiles  and  tears  thereat 

His    own    sweet    songs    that    time     shall    not 
forget. 

Waiting  with  us  the  call  to  come  up  higher, 

Life  is  not  less,  the  heavens  are  only  nigher ! 

41 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

FROM  purest  wells  of  English  undefiled 
None  deeper  drank  than  he,  the  New  World's 

child, 

Who  in  the  language  of  their  farm-fields  spoke 
The  wit  and  wisdom  of  New  England  folk, 
Shaming  a  monstrous  wrong.     The  world-wide 

laugh 
Provoked    thereby    might    well    have     shaken 

half 

The  walls  of  Slavery  down,  ere  yet  the  ball 
And  mine  of  battle  overthrew  them  all. 

42 


HAVERHILL 

1640-1890 

READ  AT  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  Two  HUNDRED    AND 
FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  CITY,  JULY  2,  1890. 

O  RIVER  winding  to  the  sea! 
We  call  the  old  time  back  to  thee ; 
From  forest  paths  and  water-ways 
The  century-woven  veil  we  raise. 

The  voices  of  to-day  are  dumb, 
Unheard  its  sounds  that  go  and  come ; 
We  listen,  through  long-lapsing  years, 
To  footsteps  of  the  pioneers. 

Gone  steepled  town  and  cultured  plain, 
The  wilderness  returns  again, 

43 


HAVEEH1LL  44 

The  drear,  untrodden  solitude, 

The  gloom  and  mystery  of  the  wood ! 

Once  more  the  bear  and  panther  prowl, 
The  wolf  repeats  his  hungry  howl, 
And,  peering  through  his  leafy  screen, 
The  Indian's  copper  face  is  seen. 

We  see,  their  rude-built  huts  beside, 
Grave  men  and  women  anxious-eyed, 
And  wistful  youth  remembering  still 
Dear  homes  in  England's  Haverhill. 

We  summon  forth  to  mortal  view 
Dark  Passaquo  and  Saggahew, — 
Wild  chiefs,  who  owned  the  mighty  sway 
Of  wizard  Passaconaway. 

Weird  memories  of  the   border  town, 
By  old  tradition  handed  down, 
In  chance  and  change  before  us  pass 
Like  pictures  in  a  magic  glass,  — 


HAVERHILL  45 

The  terrors  of  the  midnight  raid, 
The  death-concealing  ambuscade, 
The  whiter  march,  through  deserts  wild, 
Of  captive  mother,  wife,  and  child. 

Ah!  bleeding  hands  alone  subdued 
And  tamed  the  savage  habitude 
Of  forests  hiding  beasts  of  prey, 
And  human  shapes  as  fierce  as  they. 

Slow  from  the  plough  the  woods  withdrew, 
Slowly  each  year  the  corn-lands  grew ; 
Nor  fire,  nor  frost,  nor  foe  could  kill 
The  Saxon  energy  of  will. 

And  never  in  the  hamlet's  bound 
Was  lack  of  sturdy  manhood  found, 
And  never  failed  the  kindred  good 
Of  brave  and  helpful  womanhood. 

That  hamlet  now  a  city  is, 
Its  log-built  huts  are  palaces; 


HAVEEHILL  46 

The  wood-path  of  the  settler's  cow 
Is  Traffic's  crowded  highway  now. 

And  far  and  wide  it  stretches  still, 
Along  its  southward  sloping  hill, 
And  overlooks  on  either  hand 
A  rich  and  many-watered  land. 

And,  gladdening  all  the  landscape,  fair 

As  Pison  was  to  Eden's  pair, 

Our  river  to  its  valley  brings 

The  blessing  of  its  mountain  springs. 

And  Nature  holds,  with  narrowing  space, 
From  mart  and  crowd,  her  old-time  grace, 
And  guards  with  fondly  jealous  arms 
The  wild  growths  of  outlying  farms. 

Her  sunsets  on  Kenoza  fall, 
Her  autumn  leaves  by  Saltonstall; 
No  lavished  gold  can  richer  make 
Her  opulence  of  hill  and  lake. 


HAVEEHILL  47 

Wise  was  the  choice  which  led  our  sires 
To  kindle  here  their  household  fires, 
And  share  the  large  content  of  all 
Whose  lines  in  pleasant  places  fall. 

More  dear,  as  years  on  years  advance, 
We  prize  the  old  inheritance, 
And  feel,  as  far  and  wide  we  roam, 
That  all  we  seek  we  leave  at  home. 

Our  palms  are  pines,  our  oranges 
Are  apples  on  our  orchard  trees  ; 
Our  thrushes  are  our  nightingales, 
Our  larks  the  blackbirds  of  our  vales. 

No  incense  which  the  Orient  burns 
Is  sweeter  than  our  hillside  ferns ; 
What  tropic  splendor  can  outvie 
Our  autumn  woods,  our  sunset  sky? 

If,  where  the  slow  years  came  and  went, 
And  left  not  affluence,  but  content, 


HAVERHILL  48 

Now  flashes  in  our  dazzled  eyes 
The  electric  light   of   enterprise; 

And  if  the  old  idyllic  ease 

Seems  lost  in  keen  activities, 

And  crowded  workshops  now  replace 

The  hearth's  and  farm-field's  rustic  grace ; 

No  dull,  mechanic  round  of  toil 
Life's  morning  charm  can  quite  despoil ; 
And  youth  and  beauty,  hand  in  hand, 
Will  always  find  enchanted  land. 

No  task  is  ill  where  hand  and  brain 
And  skill  and  strength  have  equal  gain, 
And  each  shall  each  in  honor  hold, 
And  simple  manhood  outweigh  gold. 

Earth  shall  be  near  to  Heaven  when  all 
That  severs  man  from  man  shall  fall, 
For,  here  or  there,  salvation's  plan 
Alone  is  love  of  God  and  man. 


HAVEEHILL  49 

O  dwellers  by  the  Merrimac, 
The  heirs  of  centuries  at  your  back, 
Still  reaping  where  you  have  not  sown, 
A  broader  field  is  now  your  own. 

Hold  fast  your  Puritan  heritage, 
But  let  the  free  thought  of  the  age 
Its  light  and  hope  and  sweetness  add 
To  the  stern  faith  the  fathers  had. 

Adrift  on  Time's  returnless  tide, 
As  waves  that  follow  waves,  we  glide. 
God  grant  we  leave  upon  the  shore 
Some  waif  of  good  it  lacked  before ; 

Some  seed,  or  flower,  or  plant  of  worth, 
Some  added  beauty  to  the  earth; 
Some  larger  hope,  some  thought  to  make 
The  sad  world  happier  for  its  sake. 

As  tenants  of  uncertain  stay, 
So  may  we  live  our  little  day 


HAVEEHILL  50 

That  only  grateful  hearts  shall  fill 
The  homes  we  leave  in  Haverhill. 


The  singer  of  a  farewell  rhyme, 
Upon  whose  outmost  verge  of  time 
The  shades  of  night  are  falling  down, 
I  pray,  God  bless  the  good  old  town  I 


TO  G.  G.1 

AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

GKACEFUL  in  name,  and^in.  thy  self,  •pw  river 
None    fairer    saw  .  Jrf  •  John  Wards'  pilgrim 

flock,        :"'*/•,:    :  1  "•"•"":  •  •:  •'*•:  I  ."•'"• 

Proof  that  upon  their  century-rooted  stock 
The  English  roses  bloom  as  fresh  as  ever. 

Take   the   warm  welcome  of   new  friends  with 

thee, 

And  listening  to  thy  home's   familiar  chime 
Dream   that   thou   hearest,  with   it    keeping 

time, 
The  bells  on  Merrimac  sound  across  the  sea. 

1  The  daughter  of  Daniel  Gurteen,  Esq.,  delegate  from 
Haverhill,  England,  to  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniver 
sary  celebration  of  Haverhill,  Massachusetts.  The  Rev.  John 
Ward  of  the  former  place  and  many  of  his  old  parishioners 
were  the  pioneer  settlers  of  the  new  town  on  the  Merrimac. 
51 


f 


TO  6?.  G.  52 

Think  of   our   thrushes   when   the   lark    sings 

clear, 
Of   our  sweet  Mayflowers  when  the  daisies 

bloom ; 

And  bear  to  our  and  thy  ancestral  home 
The  kindly  greeting  of  its  children  here. 

Say  that  our  love  survives  the  severing  strain ; 
That  the  New  England,  with  the  Old,  holds 

fast 
The    proud,   fond    memories   of    a   common 

past: 
Unbroken  still  the  ties  of  blood  remain! 


INSCRIPTION 

FOB  THE  BASS-RELIEF  BY  PRESTON  POWERS,  CARVED  UPON 
THE  HUGE  BOULDER  IN  DENVER  PARK,  COL.,  AND  REP 
RESENTING  THE  LAST  INDIAN  AND  THE  LAST  BISON. 

THE    eagle,    stooping     from    yon    snow-blown 

peaks, 

For  the  wild  hunter  and  the  bison  seeks, 
In  the  changed  world  below;  and  finds  alone 
Their  graven  semblance  in  the  eternal  stone. 
53 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY 

INSCRIPTION  ON  HER  MEMORIAL  TABLET  IN  CHRIST  CHURCH 
AT  HARTFORD,  CONN. 

SHE  sang  alone,  ere  womanhood  had  known 
The  gift  of  song  which  fills  the  air  to-day, 

Tender  and  sweet,  a  music  all  her  own 
May  fitly  linger  where  she  knelt  to  pray. 


54 


MILTON 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  MEMORIAL  WINDOW  IN  ST.  MARGARET'S 
CHURCH,  WESTMINSTER,  THE  GIFT  OF  GEORGE  W.  CHILDS, 
OF  AMERICA. 

THE  new  world  honors  him  whose  lofty  plea 
For  England's  freedom  made  her  own  more 

sure, 

Whose  song,  immortal  as  its  theme,  shall  be 
Their   common   freehold   while   both  worlds 
endure. 

55 


THE  BIRTHDAY  WREATH 

DECEMBER  17,  1891. 

BLOSSOM  and  greenness,  making  all 
The  winter  birth-day  tropical, 

And  the  plain  Quaker  parlors  gay, 
Have  gone  from  bracket,  stand,  and  wall; 
We  saw  them  fade,  and  droop,  and  fall, 

And  laid  them  tenderly  away. 

White  virgin  lilies,  mignonette, 
Blown  rose,  and  pink,  and  violet, 

A  breath  of  fragrance  passing  by ; 
Visions  of  beauty  and  decay, 
Colors  and  shapes  that  could  not  stay, 

The  fairest,  sweetest,  first  to  die. 

56 


THE  BIRTHDAY  WEEATH  57 

But  still  this  rustic  wreath  of  mine, 
Of  acornecl  oak  and  needled  pine, 

And  lighter  growths  of  forest  lands, 
Woven  and  wound  with  careful  pains, 
And  tender  thoughts,  and  prayers,  remains, 

As  when  it  dropped  from  love's  dear  hands. 

And  not  unfitly  garlanded, 

Is  he,  who,  country-born  and  bred, 

Welcomes  the  sylvan  ring  which  gives 
A  feeling  of  old  summer  days, 
The  wild  delight  of  woodland  ways, 

The  glory  of  the  autumn  leaves. 

And,  if  the  flowery  meed  of  song 
To  other  bards  may  well  belong, 

Be  his,  who  from  the  farm-field  spoke 
A  word  for  Freedom  when  her  need 
Was  not  of  dulcimer  and  reed, 

This  Isthmian  wreath  of  pine  and  oak. 


THE  WIND  OF  MARCH 

UP    from    the    sea,    the    wild    north    wind    is 

blowing 

Under  the  sky's  gray  arch ; 
Smiling,    I    watch     the     shaken     elm-boughs, 

knowing 
It  is  the  wind  of  March. 

Between  the  passing  and  the  coming  season, 

This  stormy  interlude 
Gives  to  our  winter-wearied  hearts  a  reason 

For  trustful  gratitude. 

Welcome  to  waiting  ears  its  harsh  forewarning 
Of  light  and  warmth  to  come, 

58 


THE  WIND  OF  MARCH  59 

The   longed-for   joy  of   Nature's  Easter  morn- 

The  earth  arisen  in  bloom! 

In  the  loud  tumult  winter's  strength  is  break 
ing; 

I  listen  to  the  sound, 
As  to  a  voice  of  resurrection,  waking 

To  life  the  dead,  cold  ground. 

Between    these    gusts,    to    the    soft    lapse    I 
hearken 

Of  rivulets  on  their  way; 
I  see  these  tossed  and  naked  tree-tops  darken 

With  the  fresh  leaves  of  May. 

This  roar  of  storm,  this  sky  so  gray  and  low 
ering 

Invite  the  airs  of  Spring, 
A  warmer  sunshine  over  fields  of  flowering, 

The  bluebird's  song  and  wing. 


THE  WIND  OF  MAECH  60 

Closely  behind,  the  Gulf's  warm  breezes  follow 

This  northern  hurricane, 
And,  borne  thereon,  the  bobolink  and  swallow 

Shall  visit  us  again. 

And,    in   green    wood-paths,    in    the    kine-fed 
pasture 

And  by  the  whispering  rills, 
Shall  flowers  repeat  the  lesson  of  the  Master, 

Taught  on  his  Syrian  hills. 

Blow,  then,  wild  wind !    thy  roar  shall  end  in 
singing, 

Thy  chill  in  blossoming  ; 
Come,  like  Bethesda's  troubling  angel,  bringing 

The  healing  of  the  Spring. 


TO  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 
STH  Mo.  29TH,  1892. 

AMONG  the  thousands  who  with  hail  and  cheer 

Will  welcome  thy  new  year, 
How  few  of  all  have  passed,  as  thou  and  I, 

So  many  milestones  by! 

We  have  grown  old  together  ;  we  have  seen, 

Our  youth  and  age  between, 
Two  generations  leave  us,  and  to-day 

We  with  the  third  hold  way, 

Loving  and  loved.    If  thought  must  backward 

run 

To  those  who,  one  by  one, 
In  the  great  silence  and  the  dark  beyond 
Vanished  with  farewells  fond, 
61 


TO  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  62 

Unseen,  not  lost ;  our  grateful  memories  still 

Their  vacant  places  fill, 

And,   with    the    full-voiced    greeting    of    new 
friends 

A  tenderer  whisper  blends. 

Linked  close  in  a  pathetic  brotherhood 

Of  mingled  ill  and  good, 
Of  joy  and  grief,  of  grandeur  and  of  shame, 

For  pity  more  than  blame,  — 

The  gift  is  thine  the  weary  world  to  make 

More  cheerful  for  thy  sake, 
Soothing  the  ears  its  Miserere  pains, 

With  the  old  Hellenic  strains, 

Lighting  the  sullen  face  of  discontent 
With  smiles  for  blessings  sent. 

Enough  of  selfish  wailing  has  been  had, 
Thank  God !  for  notes  more  glad. 

Life  is  indeed  no  holiday ;  therein 
Are  want,  and  woe,  and  sin, 


TO  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  63 

Death  and  its  nameless  fears,  and  over  all 
Our  pitying  tears  must  fall. 

Sorrow  is  real ;  but  the  counterfeit 

Which  folly  brings  to  it, 
We  need  thy  wit  and  wisdom  to  resist, 

O  rarest  Optimist ! 

Thy  hand,  old  friend !  the  service  of  our  days, 

In  differing  moods  and  ways, 
May  prove  to  those  who  follow  in  our  train 

Not  valueless  nor  vain. 

Far  off,  and  faint  as  echoes  of  a  dream, 

The  songs  of  boyhood  seem, 
Yet    on    our    autumn    boughs,    unflown    with 
spring, 

The  evening  thrushes  sing. 

The  hour  draws  near,  howe'er  delayed  and  late, 

When  at  the  Eternal  Gate 
We  leave  the  words  and  works  we  call  our  own, 

And  lift  void  hands  alone 


TO  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  64 

For  love  to  fill.     Our  nakedness  of  soul 

Brings  to  that  Gate  no  toll ; 
Giftless  we  come  to  Him,  who  all  things  gives, 

And  live  because  He  lives. 


BETWEEN  THE  GATES 

BETWEEN  the  gates  of  birth  and  death 
An  old  and  saintly  pilgrim  passed, 

With  look  of  one  who  witnesseth 
The  long-sought  goal  at  last. 

"  O  thou  whose  reverent  feet  have  found 
The  Master's  footprints  in  thy  way, 
And  walked  thereon  as  holy  ground, 
A  boon  of  thee  I  pray. 

"  My  lack  would  borrow  thy  excess, 

My  feeble  faith  the  strength  of  thine  ; 
I  need  thy  soul's  white  saintliness 
To  hide  the  stains  of  mine. 

"The  grace  and  favor  else  denied 

May  well  be  granted  for  thy  sake." 
65 


BETWEEN  THE  GATES  66 

So,  tempted,  doubting,  sorely  tried, 
A  younger  pilgrim  spake. 

"Thy  prayer,  my  son,  transcends  my  gift; 

No  power  is  mine,"  the  sage  replied, 
"  The  burden  of  a  soul  to  lift 

Or  stain  of  sin  to  hide. 

"  Howe'er  the  outward  life  may  seem 

For  pardoning  grace  we  all  must  pray ; 
No  man  his  brother  can  redeem 
Or  a  soul's  ransom  pay. 

"  Not  always  age  is  growth  of  good ; 

Its  years  have  losses  with  their  gain ; 
Against  some  evil  youth  withstood 
Weak  hands  may  strive  in  vain. 

"With  deeper  voice  than  any  speech 
Of  mortal  lips  from  man  to  man, 
What  earth's  unwisdom  may  not  teach 
The  Spirit  only  can. 


BETWEEN  THE  GATES  67 

"  Make  thou  that  holy  guide  thine  own, 

And  following  where  it  leads  the  way, 
The  known  shall  lapse  in  the  unknown 
As  twilight  into  day. 

"The  best  of  earth  shall  still  remain, 

And  heaven's  eternal  years  shall  prove 
That  life  and  death,  and  joy  and  pain, 
Are  ministers  of  Love." 


1      or-  '•      '        ,'          -*'».!' 

•'*      '  ' 


THE  LAST  EVE  OF  SUMMER 

SUMMER'S  last  sun  nigh  unto  setting  shines 

Through  yon  columnar  pines, 
And  on  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  lawn 

Its  golden  lines  are  drawn. 

Dreaming  of  long  gone  summer  days  like  this, 

Feeling  the  wind's  soft  kiss, 
Grateful  and  glad  that  failing  ear  and  sight 

Have  still  their  old  delight, 

I  sit  alone,  and  watch  the  warm,  sweet  day 

Lapse  tenderly  away ; 
And,  wistful,  with  a  feeling  of  forecast, 

I  ask,  "  Is  this  the  last  ? 

"Will  nevermore  for  me  the  seasons  run 
Their  round,  and  will  the  sun 


THE  LAST  EVE  OF  SUMMER  69 

Of  ardent  summers  yet  to  come  forget 
For  me  to  rise  and  set  ?  " 


Thou   shouldst  be   here,  or  I  should    be   with 
thee 

Wherever  thou  mayst  be, 
Lips  mute,  hands  clasped,  in  silences  of  speech 

Each  answering  unto  each. 

For  this  still  hour,  this  sense  of  mystery  far 

Beyond  the  evening  star, 
No  words  outworn  suffice  on  lip  or  scroll : 

The  soul  would  fain  with  soul 

Wait,  while  these  few  swift-passing  days  fulfil 

The  wise-disposing  Will, 
And,  in  the  evening  as  at  morning,  trust 

The  All-Merciful  and  Just. 

The  solemn  joy  that  soul-communion  feels 
Immortal  life  reveals : 


THE  LAST  EVE  OF  SUMMER  70 

And  human  love,  its  prophecy  and  sign, 
Interprets  love  divine. 

Come  then,  in  thought,  if  that  alone  may  be, 

O  friend !  and  bring  with  thee 
Thy  calm  assurance  of  transcendent  Spheres, 

And  the  Eternal  Years ! 
August  31,  1890. 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

OVERDUE. 


At  sundown 


._.., 


1057 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


